On Fennel Street
by Cuthalion97
Summary: Based on the Ronald Howard and Howard-Marion Crawford portrayal of Holmes and Watson. Holmes and Watson have been in a small town outside of London, following the trail of Merritt and his gang of thieves. Naturally, it is cold and snowing and late at night when Holmes decides to close in on the gang. Watson knows there is such a thing as planning ahead. As always, NOT slash.


**This is a story written specifically for the TV series starring Ronald Howard and Howard Marion-Crawford as Holmes and Watson, respectively. I'm very fond of their portrayals, but unfortunately have seen only one story written for them, over on AO3. Hopefully it is enjoyable! **

Doctor John Watson stood in the middle of the icy street, staring at the unfamiliar buildings that surrounded him. This had been utter foolishness, as he'd told Holmes more than once during the course of the evening.

Tapping his cane against the slippery cobblestones, he turned to look pointedly at his companion. "Holmes, this is utter foolishness. What are we doing here, anyway?"

The glance he received in reply was one of mild confusion. "We're chasing criminals, Watson. Here, why don't you go stand beneath that lamp post and I'll –"

"We're lost," interrupted the doctor, in a tone of forced patience. "We have no idea where we are."

"Of course I do." Tugging his deerstalker hat down fore and aft, Holmes strode to the sidewalk and pointed up at a street sign which proclaimed, 'Fennel Street'.

"Knowing the street name is not the same as knowing where we are. We're lost."

"We're not _lost_," Holmes said testily. "One cannot get lost in a small town such as this."

Doctor Watson closed his eyes. "Then how do we find our way back to our hotel?"

"We go back the way we came, of course."

"Oh?" He smiled pointedly, feeling his mustache bristle as a sudden gust of frozen wind set his coat to flapping. "And how do you propose to do that?"

Holmes tapped one forefinger against his mouth and began to pace. "I must confess I hadn't entirely thought out the possibilities of tonight's chase. Merritt and his gang have led us to a nearly abandoned part of town, and we have very little idea where they might be."

Watson sent him a glare that was colder than the snow that now began to fall. "We have very little idea of where they might be, and very little idea where _we _might be." He tugged his collar up to protect his neck. "I take it we're being watched."

"If we aren't, Merritt isn't the man I take him for." Holmes turned to scrutinize the street, his eyes narrowed against the dim light. He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening. "Watson. . ."

Ah, _that _tone of voice. Watson sighed theatrically. "They're directly behind me, aren't they?"

Holmes drew a gun and flipped it open, checking to see that it was loaded. "Two of them, my dear chap, so if you'd just step aside –"

The doctor spun around, his cane landing with full force against a rather short specimen of the criminal class. With a shout, the scrawny fellow went sprawling, and his companion jumped forward, landing a solid blow against Doctor Watson's jaw. He slipped, caught his balance, and returned the blow with one of his own. The second man landed on top of the first.

Watson turned to face the detective, who still had his gun raised and was looking rather nonplussed. "How many in that gang, Holmes?"

Holmes sauntered over to observe the groaning thugs. "Hm, I see that the man you so neatly dispatched just now is only recently released from prison. Seven."

"Seven what? And how do you know?"

"Seven gang members, Watson." Holmes glanced about at the dimly lit street. "How do I know what?"

"How do you know that this fellow was just released from prison?" The two men were struggling to get to their feet, muttering imprecations, so Watson swung his stick with precision.

Holmes turned to give him an impatient look. "I _know_ because he is still wearing his prison-issued shirt."

Momentarily quashed, Watson stood quietly and waited for the master detective to deduce something that would allow them to finish the case or return to the hotel. He rather hoped they'd give up the chase until tomorrow – it was deucedly cold – but from over two years of cases with Sherlock Holmes, he knew that the probability of a hot supper and a fire was very low indeed.

No one ever accomplished anything worthwhile without trying, however. Watson cleared his throat. "I don't suppose we can leave this chase until tomorrow, Holmes."

"When we're so close to the end? Where is your sense of adventure, Watson?"

His sense of adventure had been left behind in the warm sitting room, but Watson didn't think that Holmes really wanted to know that. "How do we find Merritt, then?"

Holmes shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. "Well, seeing as how you just knocked out our two sources of information, we'll have to do it the old-fashioned way."

He stalked off down the road, and Watson followed. Holmes went straight to the abandoned shack at the far end of Fennel Street and stood on tiptoe to peer through a broken and dusty windowpane. "Those two men came directly from here, judging by the traces in the snow," he whispered. "Ah, this must be their meeting place! Of course!"

Watson sniffed against the cold. "Of course."

"Hmm. It looks as though they intend to return. There's a kettle near the fire; and Watson, I do believe there's a message on the table."

The next step was obvious. They tested the door, found it unlatched, due to the fact that it didn't have a latch, and slipped quietly in. Despite the broken window, the room was still a bit warmer than the street. Watson privately wondered if his mustache would thaw before they had to go back outside.

"Well?" he whispered to Holmes, who was standing motionlessly in the middle of the room. "Aren't you going to read the message?"

In answer, Holmes pointed to the tiny fire pit, a look of profound displeasure crossing his sharp face. "That was lit _hours _ago, and it hasn't been tended since. One would expect anyone staying here overnight to keep the room warm." He strode to the far wall, lit a match, and stared at the empty floorboards. "I also observe that their chest of illicitly gained money has been removed. It seems, Watson, that they never planned on coming back here after all."

He stalked back to the table, cape flapping around his shoulders, and snatched up the message. As he held it closer to the match, a strange look entered his eyes and he turned to stare intently at the back door.

Doctor Watson leaned forward. "What does it say?"

Holmes held it out without looking away from the door and drew his gun. Watson squinted at the paper. The message was short, only one word: **Welcome.**

"Confound it," Watson sighed, readying his stick just as the back door of the shack slammed open to reveal Merritt, whose eyes and teeth gleamed in the light of a dark lantern. He stepped aside, setting the lantern on a rickety shelf as four stocky men rushed in. Holmes had just pointed the gun at Merritt when two men caught him and snatched it away.

During the ensuing scuffle, the doctor landed several solid punches and received several in return. Someone kicked out the remainder of the fire. Watson lost his stick when a furious sailor snatched it, throwing it across the room and out through the broken window. Holmes slithered out of his overcoat, leaving it in the hands of the men who had grabbed him, and dove for Merritt, who stood smoking and observing the chaos.

Doctor Watson ducked the sailor, rammed him in the stomach with a double-handed blow, and also went for Merritt. A burly gypsy intercepted Holmes, picked him up, and tossed him against the table. Watson rammed into Merritt from behind and nearly caused the man to swallow his cigar just as Holmes disappeared beneath a confusion of thugs and splintering wood.

While Merritt cursed and extinguished his beard, Watson waded through the brawl taking place on the floor, dealing out blows as necessary until he reached Holmes. He reached down, grabbed his companion by one arm, and hauled him upright. The detective lost his balance and fell back against the wall.

Watson clouted the nearest thug over the head and glared at Holmes. "Utter foolishness!" he declared firmly.

A bullet hit the wall just above Holmes' shoulder. He and Watson stared at the hole for a moment, then at each other, and finally turned to regard the gang's leader.

"Stand where you are!" shouted Merritt, staring down the revolver barrel.

Watson raised his eyebrows at Holmes, blew the ends of his mustache out, and waited for Merritt to speak again. He wondered where Holmes' gun had got to; or, rather, where _his _gun had got to, since he had lent it to Holmes earlier that evening. Hopefully it wasn't damaged – it was a good model.

Merritt strolled towards them, smirking. "I've caught you at last, _Mr. _Holmes," he gloated predictably. Watson was pleased to see that the cigar had burned a hole in his previously impeccable black beard, but he wondered why gloating criminals always tended to put the stress on the prefix of their victims' names.

Merritt turned a nasty look on him, no doubt upset about the ruin of his beard. "And you as well, _Dr. _Watson."

The doctor rolled his eyes heavenward and prayed for patience.

"Yes, so we have observed," said Holmes imperturbably, brushing his suit coat free of splinters. "A very nice trap."

"A very deadly trap," Merritt agreed. "I suppose you know what I do to detectives and doctors who get in the way of my plans."

Holmes hunched his shoulders against a blast of wind that entered through the new holes in the walls and windows. "The same thing that you did to that unfortunate postman, I assume."

"You assume correctly." Merritt smiled toothily and went across the room to speak to his men, all of whom were limping or clutching their heads or arms.

Watson leaned towards his companion. "Holmes."

"Hmm?"

"What _did _happen to the postman?'

Holmes' eyebrows furrowed slightly. "He was tied and dumped in the river," he said, his tone mildly disgusted. "You know, Watson, Merritt is clever in some things, but he's a terribly obvious murderer."

"In the river! But, Holmes, it's freezing outside!" Watson protested.

The detective gave him a faint, sardonic smile. "Yes, I believe that is why Merritt feels safe in not shooting us before he shoves us off the nearest wharf."

Doctor Watson huffed. "I don't know about you, Holmes, but I have no intention of being tossed into icy water. The first time was enough for me."

"Yes," Holmes replied, both amused and chagrined. "Lestrade laughed for weeks about that. . ."

The gypsy and the sailor, holding coils of sturdy rope, were listening to Merritt's muttered instructions. Watson rubbed his hands together and wished he'd remembered his gloves. "I don't suppose you have another gun."

A gust of wind rattled the walls.

"We are in rather a tight spot," Holmes mused. "I suppose we could rush for the front door, but it's guarded by two men, and Merritt is armed."

Doctor Watson shifted. "The back door, then."

"The back door is guarded by our friends from the street."

A blast of icy wind caused the walls to creak alarmingly. Holmes and Watson slanted sideways glances at each other. "Merritt –" began Holmes.

"Shut up!" the criminal snapped.

Watson cleared his throat. "Merritt, the –"

A bullet ripped through the wall between him and Holmes. "I'll fix you," Merritt growled, grinding his extinguished cigar between his teeth. "Both of you! See if you're still eager to nose around my affairs after you've been drowned and frozen solid."

Watson looked at the detective. "Well, we tried, old man," he said. "Nothing for it now."

And with that, he and Holmes turned and flung themselves against the weakened wall, smashing through it. Merritt shouted, firing after them, and they scrambled to their feet. As they dashed away, slipping a little on the icy stones, there was a sudden creaking and tearing, and the house collapsed on itself.

A long minute later, when Holmes and Watson had finally succeeded in extricating themselves from the deep snowbank they'd thrown themselves into, they turned to regard the pile of splintered boards that had formed the shack.

Watson blew on his numb fingers, to no effect. "I suppose we'll have to get them out of there before they freeze to death."

Holmes tugged something out of his pocket, put it to his mouth, and blew a piercing blast, then another.

Doctor Watson stared at him. "You have your _police whistle_?"

"Of course."

The sound of an answering whistle pierced the air, and several uniformed policemen rushed into the street.

Watson's voice turned accusatory. "You've had it all this time!"

"Excellent deduction, Watson." Holmes removed his hat, brushed the snow from it, clapped it back on his head, and hurried forward to meet the police and to explain the situation.

Doctor Watson stood frigidly in the center of the road, his hands deep in his pockets and his mustache bristling with indignation. When it became hard to blink due to the cold air, he decided he'd been glaring too long, and he trudged forward to offer his assistance.

It took half an hour for the policemen to haul the gang members out of the wreckage, for Holmes to find and recover the stolen money, and for Watson to set Merritt's broken leg, amidst much cursing and threatening from the gang leader.

"I'll get you someday!" Merritt shouted from the back of the wagon, where he and his henchmen were sitting, handcuffed to one another.

Watson gave him a friendly nod and a smile, hopped out of the wagon, and marched away, ignoring the continued shouting. When he reached the remains of the shack, Holmes was still poking about the splintered boards and beams, apparently searching for something.

Doctor Watson stopped beside him just as Holmes crept beneath a precariously balanced piece of wood. "Holmes!"

The detective jolted upright, smacked his head against the board, and looked up with a long-suffering expression that Watson felt was entirely unjustified in the current situation, unless of course _he _was the one wearing it. Then Holmes' attention was caught by the departing wagon. "Ah, good, Merritt and his gang are officially in custody of the police. All that remains is –"

"The case is closed," Watson said. "I believe that is what you told the inspector?"

"Yes, yes, of course." Holmes glanced about and kicked aside some debris.

Watson pulled out his watch and clicked it open. "It is now ten o'clock at night, Holmes."

"Watson, light a match, would you?"

He fumbled with his matchbook, struck a match and held it out. "It is below freezing, and the snow is picking up again."

Holmes dove forward, snatching something from the ground. "Here it is!"

"We should return to the hotel."

"Your revolver, Watson." Holmes held it out. "I think you're better suited to handling it than I. I'll leave it up to you next time."

"There will not _be _a next time –" Watson began.

Holmes chuckled, once again glancing about on the ground. "Why ever not? As long as there are criminals, you know –"

"Holmes," said Watson, slowly and with a dangerous amount of dignity. "It is absolutely freezing out here, and you aren't even wearing a coat. If we stay out here much longer one or both of us will catch pneumonia."

"It's around here somewhere – ah!" Holmes held up his overcoat triumphantly, shook it out, and put it on. "Watson, what were you saying just now?"

Doctor Watson turned and strode off, then caught sight of the street sign. "Holmes, how do we get back to the hotel?"

There was a very long pause.

Eventually, Holmes cleared his throat. "I should have asked the inspector while he was here, I suppose. . ."

"Holmes, I swear, if you weren't already covered in snow –" With an effort, Watson stifled the un-doctorly thought and looked away from the nearby and convenient snowbank. "We're lost."

"We're not lost."

"_Holmes. . ._"

"I have it, Watson!" Holmes' voice was gratingly cheerful. "We can track the police wagon back to the station, and from there we know the way to the hotel."

With that, he hurried down the road, peering at the ground every so often. It took them a quarter of an hour to reach the police station, where the inspector's amused surprise at seeing them did not improve the doctor's mood, and another ten minutes to reach their hotel.

They entered the lobby. Without a word, Watson marched straight to the sitting room and removed his coat. He poked the fire back to life and went into his room to change into dry clothes and a dressing gown. He returned to the sitting room and sat in front of the fire just as Holmes returned from his own room. Watson did not speak, despite Holmes' sideways glances and half-started attempts at speech, until he had drunk two cups of steaming tea and was feeling sufficiently thawed.

Then, and only then, did he turn to the detective, who had been fidgeting with his pipe for the past half hour. "Holmes. I hope you realize that we could have captured Merritt and his gang without having to get lost, fight our way through six ruffians, risk our lives, break through the wall of a house, get buried in a snowbank, and nearly freeze to death."

Holmes tapped a finger consideringly against his mouth. "I could have called the police in immediately, you mean."

Watson shut his eyes and, despite this fact, contrived to gaze down his nose at the detective, who laughed. "Don't look so disgruntled, Watson. I didn't want to risk a shootout in the middle of the town, you know. I certainly didn't expect Merritt to attack the way he did."

"Mm." Watson got up and went to the table. "More tea?"

"Yes, thank you." Holmes accepted the cup that Watson held out. "It was sheer luck that the building was weak enough to bring down."

Watson sat upright. "Luck? Holmes, for heaven's sake!"

They sat there in silence for the next few minutes, listening to the crackling of the fire and the wind. Then a mischievous gleam entered Holmes' eyes. "Watson."

"Yes?"

"I thought that note Merritt left us was a rather nice touch."

"Really?"

"Yes. It was a rather theatrical touch."

"I suppose." Watson peered suspiciously at him. "Why, what did you do with it?"

"I asked the inspector to put it in his jail's strongest cell – the one he'd naturally put Merritt in, you know."

Watson leaned back, a satisfied smile crossing his face. "Theatrical touch, eh?"

"Hm. Oh, by the way, there's a train back to London at 4:08 tomorrow morning."

"Well, we aren't taking it." Watson got to his feet, clapped Holmes on the shoulder, and headed to his room. "We'll take the later one. It's an 11:55 or an 11:57. Oh, and Holmes? You can buy the tickets."

**I'd love to know what you thought of this, especially if you've seen the Ronald Howards. They're on YouTube if you haven't . . . The first and second (the only two which have a chronological order) are 'The Cunningham Heritage' and 'The Case of Lady Beryl'. One of my favorite episodes is 'The Christmas Pudding', which has a prime example of Watson getting upset at Holmes - and for very good reason. :D**


End file.
